


In the Bleak Midwinter

by lilybeth84



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilybeth84/pseuds/lilybeth84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One cold winter evening, Hathaway receives a call from a most unexpected woman...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akerwis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akerwis/gifts).



Sergeant James Hathaway gazed out the window from his warm seat in The Perch. Lewis had already gone home, having promised to call his daughter before too late. James had decided to stay and have another pint, not wanting to go home to his empty flat just yet. 

Outside the winter air was bitterly cold, not a cloud to be seen in the clear sky. This close to Christmas and there had yet to be any snow in Oxford. 

Christmas…

Once upon a time, he would have gone to church, enjoying Lessons and Carols, and the midnight church bell ringing in Christmas Day—but no longer—and it was an aching loneliness that filled him this time of year when everyone around him was cheerful and laughing, happy to be with loved ones. 

He had just drained the last of his glass when his phone buzzed, startling him. Taking it out of his pocket, he assumed it was Lewis calling to tell him someone had been murdered, but the number was not pre-programmed into his phone. Puzzled at who could be calling him so late on a weeknight, he flipped it open.

“D.S Hathaway,” he said into the phone.

“James?” A woman’s voice he didn’t recognize crackled over the line.

“Yes, who is this?” He asked, putting money down on the table and getting to his feet.

“It’s Liv…Liv Nash.”

He was halfway outside when he stopped, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

“Do…do you remember me?” she asked hesitantly. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he stumbled, feeling flustered. “Liv, how are you?” It had been months since he had last seen her…she had never called him once. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I—I —” She fell silent, and he almost stopped breathing, waiting for her to continue. “Can I see you?” she said finally. 

He could hear the apprehension in her voice, and it was with a similar tone in which he said, “Of course…where?”

+++

The garden was stark this time of year, the golden chain trees in the Doctrine of Signatures looked like skeletons, their hanging branches, brushing the soil beneath them, bare of any toxic yellow flowers. The medicinal plants: wormwood, mugwort, mandrake, and bloodroot scattered across the ground made the garden look more like a desert from the American southwest than one that belonged in Oxford.

He found Liv in the shed he had been to earlier in the year, the warm glow of light in the window both a nerve-wracking and welcome sight. He wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his jumper, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

He took a moment to breath in deeply, the cold winter air, and then knocked on the door.

It opened almost immediately, and there she was, illuminated by the light of the lamp on the work table behind her. 

“James,” she said softly, her voice tentative but strong. “Come in.”

He followed her inside and was surprised how warm it was. It was though she read his thoughts because she pointed to a corner where a small rotating heater was plugged in. 

“It’s the only thing that keeps this place bearable in the winter months,” she explained, taking an electric tea kettle off the counter and filling it with cold water from the nearby sink. “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?” 

“Thank, you,” he acquiesced with a nod of his head, determined not to bow to her as he had done previously. 

She took a blue and white teapot from the sink and placed it on the small table in the center of the room, brushing the dirt and bulbs to the side. “Sorry, it’s a bit dirty,” she apologized, pulling out a chair. “I was sorting bulbs to plant in the fall.” She went to wipe her hands on her jeans, but thought better of it at the last second, and grabbed a towel from the sink. 

“I don’t mind,” he assured her, taking a seat in one of the rickety wooden chairs. “A little dirt doesn’t hurt.” He gave her a small smile, which she returned…but as soon as she thought he wasn’t looking, it faded away. Her dark chestnut hair was halfway pulled back, a few curls framing her cheekbones. She was not a classic beauty, but there was something striking about her, and he found he could not look away.

The kettle whistled and she nervously busied herself with the tealeaves and pouring the boiling water into the pot. Only after it was steeping did she sit down across from him, her large eyes staring across the table at his. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, not knowing why he was here. 

“I—I was going to ask if you wanted to—”

She fell silent, flushing pink from her collarbone to her cheeks “Oh, this is so awkward.” She put her hands against her cheeks. “I’m not usually like this.”

“What is it?” But his mouth was dry and it came out raspy. “Liv?”

“Why did you never call me?” she blurted out, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. 

He sat back. “What?” he asked dumbly.

“No, that’s not what I wanted to say!” She stood, visibly upset. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t,” he said roughly, and it was without thought that he reached out and grasped her hand. He felt the rough calluses on her palms catch against his skin and he trembled. “I—I thought you were angry with me.” He swallowed hard. “After accusing your boss of murder, I didn’t suppose asking you out for a pint would have been the best way to tell you—” he broke off, feeling his face flush. He dropped his eyes to the mug in front of him.

“Tell me what?” she whispered, and what he saw flash across her face was a reflection of his own feelings…then he gently pulled her towards him until she was in his lap, her softness pressed against his lean form. Her brown eyes flitted over his face, wide with surprise, and he felt her heart thumping against her breasts. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, taking note of her ragged, unkempt fingernails. She took in a deep breath and he watched as her eyes darkened at his caress. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Why hadn’t he called her? He was such an idiot. The dam between his brain and his mouth broke and he said the very first thing he had thought when he had seen her all those months ago…

“You have the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen.”

She blushed and tried to pull them away. “They’re not.”

“Yes…they are,” he insisted, gripping them tighter. “I thought so since the first time I met you. Not everyone has the gift that you do…the gift to nurture and give life. I bet when you walk through the garden in the spring the plants just burst out of the ground in bloom—just like Persephone.” 

She looked startled and then a realization dawned on her face. “You really mean that, don’t you?” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Is it possible that a man such as you exists?” She let out a breathless laugh. “Do you have poetry in your veins instead of blood?”

He wasn’t sure what it was; whether the wonderment in her voice or her opinion of his character, but whatever it was, it sent a shiver of desire through him. Grasping the back of her neck, he pulled her head towards him and took her lower lip in between his. 

He felt her sharp intake of breath as her fingers crawled up his neck and into his hair, fingernails digging into his skull, sending goose bumps across his skin. She kissed him back and he felt her grow hot underneath his roaming hands as they slid down her shoulders to her hips, cupping her buttocks through her jeans, pulling her closer. She smelled of earth and moss, and he felt a great longing to bury himself deep inside her where he could never get out.

He shivered in desire, his name murmured in his ear…but this cloistered shed was not wild enough for her. He needed to take her in her element—under the moon and in the soil. It did not matter that it was winter...

He stood, stumbling against the door, and carried her out into the cold night. She shivered but said nothing as she wiggled from his arms. “I know,” she said in a low voice. She grasped his hand, the waxing crescent moon bright above them as she led him through the garden to a place within the woods where small white lights twinkled from the trees. Someone had decorated them for Yultide, and as she pulled him down under a fur tree, he caught the musty scent of cinnamon on the air. When he looked up, orange Chinese Lanterns hung around thing, their thin paper-like casings glowing as the light filtered through them.

They shed their clothes and gasped as the cold winter earth cradled them in its embrace. Sliding between her thighs, he pressed into her, his fingers digging into the dirt, her lips parting as a tiny sound escaped her throat, hanging in the air before evaporating into the night.

It was there under the winter tree, the bundles of cinnamon sticks chiming hollowly as they clicked together in the light breeze, that he found the first thread of hope for a future with someone in it, and when the last sigh was made, the last whimper of pleasure gone, Liv drew away. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight and his seed ran down her leg where it soaked into the ground below. He reached up and gently wiped it off, and she looked down at him, her dark eyes piercing him straight into his heart; it jumped painfully, and though he didn’t know then, he would know soon…he was falling in love with her.

It was too cold to linger so they pulled on their scattered clothing and made their way back to the shed where their tea was waiting, cooler, but still hot enough to ease the chill.  
They sat at the table with the heater pulled close. They were both covered in dirt, but James did not care; he couldn’t imagine leaving her, to never feel her beneath him again, never hear her voice.

And that was when she spoke the sweetest words he had ever known:

“Come home with me. It isn’t much, but there is room for two…” 

He gently reached out and stroked on finger down her dirt smudged cheek. “Is there a garden?” he asked, plucking a small twig from her hair.

“A small one,” she said with a smile. “With roses and lavender.”

He handed her the twig, which she took and set down carefully beside the teapot. 

“Good.”

“And what about you,” she asked. “What does a man who walks among the dead need?”

“Only you,” he replied simply, an unfamiliar feeling rising within him. It wasn’t until she had pressed her lips to his that he realized it was joy.


End file.
